CHRISTOPHER DEWEESE

The CloudThe cloud is trying to hold itself together, and I am trying to hold up the cloud. Heavy and tired, I look around.I drag myself across the rainbow,a quiet exhibit immediately forgotten in the question of distance, how many miles it is between here and anything,the sky a cliff all jump and floating, the miles just numbers hid between my breathingand the real light stumbling like transparent fists through my window.I want to grab the cloud and juice it down,cut it into smaller pieces then stuff it in a blender.The cloud is boneless. It’s getting closer, vibrating like a uvula in the handsome wind.I breathe evenly. For a gangster, I’m getting pretty good at this.It’s like breathing is a bank I’ve robbed so oftenI’ve been named its president.The responsibility soothes me.Orphans depend on my decisions.I look out the window.I walk into the white building.15 The Paris-American

Christopher DeWeese is the author of The Black Forest (Octopus Books, 2012). His poems have appeared in Boston Review, jubilat, and Tin House. He teaches at Smith College.